


Being Executioner

by Senket



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Child Abuse, Daddy Issues, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Parent/Child Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-26
Updated: 2011-04-26
Packaged: 2017-11-15 16:34:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/529322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Senket/pseuds/Senket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When things go wrong, Mycroft only has one way to de-stress. He asks Lestrade to help. Lestrade doesn't like to. Really, really doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Being Executioner

**Author's Note:**

> when 'spanking and daddy kink' turns into 'daddy issues' turns into 'oh god what did I do?'

**Five** : Mycroft is six when his mother remarries- he's seven when Sherlock is born. He's nine when their relationship goes cold; he's nine when he first discovers why. He's eleven when he gets the ultimatum- him, or Sherlock. The decision is easy. The repercussions are hard.  
  
 **Four** : Lestrade does rounds when he first joins the force. The call itself isn't that unusual. When they get there, there's a woman, sobbing broken-heartedly. Her husband is gone, the drive still smelling faintly of burning rubber. A fourteen-year-old girl is trying to comfort her mother, expression pale and confused. 'I had no idea,' the lady wails, high-pitched. 'How could he.' Lestrade's partner leaves to call in the step-father's identity and license plate. He has to take the woman's statement. He stays with her while her daughter vanishes into a hospital room for a rape kit. It's the worst day of his career, even after he transfers to Murder.  
 **  
Three:** Sherlock is thirteen when he pieces everything together. His father is already in jail, but there's murder on his mind. It doesn't go away until Mister Roger Hudson hangs. Now he's only angry, a steady fire burning in his chest. He's angry at Mycroft for choosing to be the sacrifice. He's angry at being the cause. Mummy is upset, they say, when they're being casual, when they're pretending this is sibling rivalry. The truth is that she's destroyed. Murder is still on her mind.

 **Two:** Lestrade knows it's coming when he reads the paper. Devolving Problems in Egypt. Protesters Shot by Security Guards. Former Prime Minister and Two Sons on Trial. He settles back and runs his fingers through his hair, pressing his thumbs into his eyes. He should feel pleased that Mycroft trusts him this far, but he feels sick instead. He turns his phone off; it won't help but he wants to avoid this as long as possible.  
  
 **One** : Mycroft knows he's cracked. His step-father is in jail- will be in jail for the rest of his life. He's fixed that. He has sexual partners. (Well, just the one.) He has some other calming techniques. He functions so very well- considering what he's been through. But he's still cracked, and he still needs this when things get bad. When he's guilty. When it's his fault. He’ll never be free.  
  
 **And...** Lestrade sits on the bed, rubbing bare feet into the carpet. Mycroft has his eyes downturned when he comes in, kneeling at his feet, resting his head on Lestrade's knee. He steels himself.

"You've done wrong, little Mycroft." Lestrade's voice is cold, imposing. He has long practice removing himself from the scene of the crime, from the criminal. He feels sick but there's nothing for it. God, he's only three years older than this man. They're both in their forties. He doesn't want to take him apart, not like this.

He waits until Mycroft answers ("yes.") before touching him, dragging his fingernails down the man's neck. Mycroft shivers, mouth open, keening low in the back of his throat.

"You've been _bad_."

Mycroft used to whimper, years and years ago. Now he only groans, needy, pushing closer. Lestrade's mouth pulls down. He hauls Mycroft up by the collar, forcibly pulling him across his lap. Mycroft struggles but Lestrade knows what he's doing- he restrains the man with a heavy hand on his neck, pinching against his Adam's apple, deftly loosening Mycroft's belt with his other hand. He needs both hands to get the man's trousers and pants down but Mycroft has stilled by then.

He doesn't flinch when his hand hits Mycroft's white bottom.

He doesn't stop until the skin is hot and red, his hand stinging. His fingers smooth over the curve of Mycroft's buttocks, voice cool and detached. "Do you want this to stop, little Mycroft?"

" _Please,_ " Mycroft groans in answer, raising his hips as he presses his cheek against the mattress. Lestrade wishes 'please' and 'yes' meant the same thing.

“Do you think you _deserve_ it to stop?”

Mycroft gasps and squirms, breath hitching, sucking in air with an open mouth. Lestrade watches him kneed sheets with his fingers before swallowing, clenching his teeth. Mycroft can’t see his face so Greg squeezes his eyes shut, forming his lips into prayers to even deity he can think of that this end one day soon, that it won’t have to be like this anymore. It’s just as well he doesn’t believe in them.

“No,” Mycroft gasps finally when he manages to clear his mind enough to answer, hips rhythmically pushing into Lestrade’s lap. He might’ve been turned on in any other case. He’s really not.

Instead he stars to spank Mycroft again until he’s sure it’ll bruise, palm sore. The man in his lap is panting and trying to crawl away. Lestrade lets him, staring vaguely at a small, dark mole on Mycroft’s left hip as the man shifts.

Mycroft slithers about on his stomach until he’s stretched out behind Lestrade on the mattress, jamming a pillow beneath his hips before reaching to close his fingers around the wooden headboard, easing his thighs apart.

Greg works his belt off, thumbs the buttons of his fly open. Pulling the lube out, he strokes it on mechanically. Mycroft says he’d prefer without, but there’s no way, no _way_ he’ll even consider it. It’s bad enough already.

He strokes his fingers through Mycroft’s hair, watching the Holmes shiver. It’s pleasure Mycroft is feeling, no doubt, but he has to remind himself of that because, honestly, he’s just afraid. “You’ll be good from now on, won’t you?”

“Yes,” Mycroft groans. “Yes, daddy, I promise, I promise I’ll be good.”

He feels like something cold and slimy has forced its way past his tongue and into his lungs, a heavy sludge making it hard to breathe. He twists his fingers into Mycroft’s hair sharply, pushes the man’s cheek into the mattress, and leans all his weight on the slimmer body beneath him. He can feel Mycroft’s thudding heart, the hitch of arousal in his shallow breaths. He wishes it helped more.

He pushes his nose into Mycroft’s neck, stroking himself to life, breathing in the smell of sweat and Darjeeling. _That_ helps, at least. He pushes one finger into the man, still slick with lube- then two. Mycroft moans against the sheets, edges his thighs farther apart.

Lestrade shoves himself in with a single quick stroke. “I’m doing this to help you,” he purrs into Mycroft’s ear, stroking a hand down his side, digging his nails into the man’s hip. “I just want you to be a good boy.”

“Yes, “ Mycroft groans, thighs flexing, eagerly pushing back. “I’ll be good. Be so good.”

“I know you will,” Lestrade growls, pulling out just to shove back in with a single violent thrust. He builds up a rhythm, sharp and unforgiving. He thinks about Mycroft’s mouth against his neck, thinks about the man’s warm hands on his back. He thinks about how it feels with Mycroft buried in him, panting, shaking with desire. Thinks about Mycroft tight around him.

This is fine.

This is fine.

It doesn’t take long before Mycroft is squirming beneath him, gasping, whimpering, hips thrusting desperately as he cries out, litanies of ‘be so good’ and ‘daddy’. Mycroft comes hard and messily. It jolts Lestrade back into himself- he pulls out, going soft as the meaning washes over him. He runs for the shower.

Greg cries under the water, great gasps of air as he shakes apart.

When he comes out Mycroft is sitting at the edge of the bed. He doesn’t look, merely slides in under the covers, wet hair against his pillow, curling onto his side. He holds his breath when he hears Mycroft shift. His lungs burn as the other man slides in behind him.

Mycroft wraps an arm around Lestrade’s chest and the other around his waist, moulding himself against the detective’s back. “Thank you,” he breathes, kissing him behind the ear.

Lestrade doesn’t answer. Mycroft lets him sleep.


End file.
